


a trap that you cannot escape

by crookedspoon



Series: Dick Grayson Week 2020 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Brainwashed Dick Grayson, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Court of Owls, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Forced Feminization, Gangbang, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multi, Object Insertion, Past Incest, Rape/Non-con Elements, This is trash, Trash Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23596627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: Talon is not a weapon tonight, but he is still a tool of his masters. Made for a purpose. And that purpose is to serve. Mind and body.
Relationships: Court of Owls/Dick Grayson
Series: Dick Grayson Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698982
Comments: 13
Kudos: 93
Collections: Dick Grayson Rare Pair Challenge, Dick Grayson Week 2020





	a trap that you cannot escape

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nightwhelmed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightwhelmed/gifts).



> Written for April 11th: "bottom!Dick | Court of Owls" and LetsWriteCUTIES, who suggested forced fem on underage Dick. Sorry, this became a different beast from what we talked about. Simply because I love Talon's disaffected voice too much lol.
> 
> This is fucked up. The tags probably don't capture how much. Further warnings include pedophilia, minors witnessing sexual situations, very vaguely implied necro? Idek. This doesn't make sense. I'm warning ya.

It is springtime, the season of resurrection, of new beginnings. Even his little world is allowed to thaw out at least once a year, as if he needed the exercise in mobility to ensure he can still be of use to the Court.

Servants, masked just like their masters, tend to his transformation: the armor that usually protects the fragility of his human body is exchanged with flimsier garments. Thigh-high stockings adorned with red bows for his shin guards, a dress that pulls tight across his hips and flares out over his thighs for his uniform, makeup for his mask. 

Vibrant it all is, like the plumage of a bird of paradise. Nothing he would be wearing on a stealth mission, but stealth will not be required of him tonight.

Talon submits to the procedure. He need not guard against his masters. Whatever their wish, it shall be carried out without hesitation. If it is their will that he be hurt, so shall it be.

Talon is not a weapon tonight, but he is still a tool of his masters. Made for a purpose. And that purpose is to serve. Mind and body.

His limbs are still numb from his hibernation when he is taken before the Court, his feet unsteady as a hatchling's. The servants guide and steady him, one of each side, as he walks on trembling legs, his skirt fluttering around them.

It is not unlike the first time he was brought here as a boy, shaking and scared, although now he knows what awaits him. It is what his parents have prepared him for, after all, so many years ago, before their deaths. Talon remembers them with what he believes is fondness. They were good to him, until the day they had to give him away.

Talon, too, remembers the fear that had gripped his little boy's heart to be without his parents in a dark and strange environment. The girl's clothes he had been forced to wear only added to his distinct unease.

Talon remembers these things as historical fact, not as something he himself experienced. Talon no longer knows fear. He no longer knows discomfort. All is according to his masters' design.

Even the pain they inflict on him.

Then as now, they pass him around between them, like a shared drink of wine at mass. He is pinched and fondled, thrown over knees and spanked like an unruly child, his skirts drawn up to expose his bare flesh. The lace-edged panties he is wearing beneath the dress are barely more than strings holding together a patch of fabric over his genitals. His masters love to see him dolled up for them, and they love even more to play with him like a toy.

His masters all have different proclivities, some more urgent than others. Some are allowed to touch him first, lest they lose their window of opportunity on the special pleasures they want to draw from him.

"I love it when they're still cold," one of them grunts as he thrusts into Talon.

His skin is still numb to the touch, but his master's cock feels like a hot poker piercing his insides. Talon moans anyway, the way it is expected of him. His torso is resting flat on a table, his legs spread wide and touching the floor. Warm hands smooth over his stockings, or pull on the strings of his panties, making them snap back against his skin. The table's surface is cool beneath his cheek, until his head is lifted off of it by a fist in his hair. His masters love to rearrange him as though he were a joint-less doll.

"His mouth is not cold at all," another says as he plunges his thick, veiny cock between Talon's lips. It nearly unhinges Talon's jaw and rubs against the back of Talon's throat, as if determined to test out exactly how under control his gag reflex is.

Talon remains passive and open, like his father had taught him. His body warms to remember his father's touch, so gentle, so caring, so infinitely patient, wanting him to enjoy the process as much as the reward at the end. The pride on his face when the little boy Talon used to be had taken his entire length in his throat or his body... The little boy Talon used to be would have done anything to earn his father's love. And love him, his father did. It was just different from the love his masters show him now.

"I liked him better when he was a spindly thing half the size he is now," yet another voice rises above the chorus of murmurs that washes over Talon's ears. "He used to be so expressive then. With real anguish in his eyes when I so much as teased his hole with a finger."

Talon feels a slap on his cheek and looks up. Spots dance across his vision and the backlighting blinds the rest of it. All he can see are shadowy outlines with white masks.

"Nowadays you can fuck him with a knife and he'll moan like the docile whore you made him become."

As if to make him agree, the cock in his ass thrusts deeper into his gut. Talon groans around the cock in his mouth. His vision blacks out completely and all he hears are disembodied voices.

"Now, now, you cannot strip someone of emotion and expect him to retain them in certain areas of your choosing, just because you'd like it better that way. And besides, eventually they all grow up."

"At least we have a steady supply of unused young ones you can ruin. So stop whining about this one growing up and just be glad he survived everything you put him through when it could still kill him."

Then he hears nothing but the blood rushing through his ears.

Talon's hand twitches, yet he finds no knife there, no talons of his own. Just fingers gloved in cotton to make them dull. His masters disapprove of scratching, unless it is them sinking their talons into _his_ flesh. Talon has deep gouges running down his back as proof and he is proud of them. They are marks of approval: they speak of his masters' unbridled desire for him.

Even the young ones like to play with him once their elders have had their turn. They twist and poke his skin as if trying to find the spot that will make him lunge at them. They are told that he is scary, that he is a weapon that will carry out their orders, yet there he lies like any other of their broken toys, the only difference being that his chest is still rising and falling. He is no danger to them. He simply obeys.

"He looks like a girl in that dress," one of them chirps.

"Do you think he likes to play with dolls, too?" another wonders.

"Why don't you ask him?"

"Do you like dolls? You look like one."

Talon grunts when something prods the tender skin of his ass. He is still full with the combined essence of his masters. It is only slowly leaking out of him. Talon grunts again when that something that has prodded him is inserted into his body, stiff and long and kind of waxy.

It is not the biggest thing that has been inside of him tonight, but it is the things with the most edges that scratch him inside. Talon moans, because it is what his masters expect of him.

"Looks like he does."

The young ones giggle, delighted that he plays along. Talon is glad he gets to please them, too.

Just like his masters like to show him off, like him to demonstrate what he can do, how much he can take, Talon himself likes to demonstrate his loyalty to the Court, likes to make his masters proud, even if they still have to grow into the role of masters. 

He still remembers his first official mission: he was to cut ties with his family, wearing a dress similar to the one they clothed him in years ago, just so they would recognize their lost little bird. Although he was theirs no longer. How pleased his masters were when he came back dripping with his parents' blood.

He is their favorite, they said. So pretty in a dress. They like it best when it is flecked in red.

Over the years, Talon has learned his masters have no preference for whose blood he is flecked with - that of his targets, his brethren, or even his own. 

They do, however, have a strong preference for ripping his dresses to shreds as they fuck him.

Oftentimes, his knees will have been scraped open despite the stockings that he wore. Sometimes, shards of broken wine bottles will be embedded in his skin. His masters leave him like a used dish rag once he has fulfilled his duties and they no longer require him. The servants will have to patch him up right there on the floor before they can help him to his feet. He will hobble back to his nest then, assessing the damage done to him and calculating how long it will take until he can be of use to his masters again.

Other times, Talon does not remember how he got back to his nest. He will get headaches when he tries. Flashes of memory are the best he can do, but even those appear to be faulty. They do not always line up with the evidence - his body. There are no fresh scrapes or gouges, no soreness in his throat or the rest of him, as if his masters had had no need for his services after all. There is only the soothing chemical burn that churns life through his veins. That wakes him without fail when he is sleeping. Even when he is sleeping the sleep of the dead.

It is springtime, after all, the season of resurrection, and Talon will always return when his masters call.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Lazarus" by Placebo.


End file.
